Burnman

Burnman features two-thirds of the exceptional, and obviously defunct I Hate Myself, yet builds upon their sonic palette in ways that confuse, confound and impress. Frantic, chaotic and yet restrained enough to allow the listener subtle sonic handholds, Burnman resemble a punk unit that's mastered the craft and hopes to escape its constraints by becoming hopelessly enamoured with the collective eccentricities of the avant-garde Skin Graft label. Raucous rock tempos, jagged chords, meandering riffs, flailing drumming and a fascination with art rock noise, bizarre breakdowns where everything just collapses then resurrects itself into a congruent, emotional finale dominate this beautiful mess, colliding with songs that build and build until they intentionally fall flat on their face, like half-formed thoughts or unsaid words. Comparisons can easily be drawn to frantic math and post rock bands of various pedigrees, but it's the bizarre sense of surrealism, both musical and lyrically, that worms its way through these 12 songs that defines Burnman, that and the music that is at oft times just welcoming enough to lure one into a false sense of security before taking a turn for the unexpected. Inventive, bizarre and engaging, Notes For A Catalogue For An Exhibition is as uncompromising as it is unorthodox, yet never stops bringing the "rock."